A Matter of Trust
by the grene kni3t
Summary: Scrooge McDuck turns his attention once more to the question of his nephews' inheritance. Based on the comics of Carl Barks and Don Rosa.


( "A Matter of Trust," an Uncle Scrooge fanfic. Based on Disney comic stories by Carl Barks and Don Rosa. )

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It was very infrequently that Scrooge McDuck called his lawyer. Scrooge bore no personal animosity towards the fellow, you understand, but like most members of the profession he charged by the hour for his services, and one doesn't get to be the world's richest duck by spending money.

Besides, at the moment, the world's richest duck had all his legal affairs in order. His major companies and his person were unusually free of lawsuits. In addition, through an ingenious trick (if he did say so himself) of his own design, he had recently settled the question of who was to inherit his fortune of nine fantasticatillion, four billion-jillion, centrifugalillion dollars and sixteen cents.

"And fine heirs they'll be!" chuckled Scrooge to himself, looking at a photograph of his grandnephews Huey, Dewey, and Louie—or was it Dewey, Huey, and Louie? Or . . . "Anyway, they're all three bright, resourceful boys. In their hands, I'm sure . . ." He trailed off, eyes wide, and suddenly realized what he so often forgot, especially when they were the ones rescuing him. They were bright and resourceful, true, but they were only _boys_.

"And you don't think your nephews are ready for their inheritance, Mr. McDuck?" asked Scrooge's lawyer an hour later, looking at his watch.

"It isn't just that they aren't _ready_, Flywheel," Scrooge explained quickly, looking at his own watch. "It's a lot of work being a fantasticatillionaire, and I want the kids to have time to explore and get an education. They should have a chance to make something of themselves by their own wits, as I did. If something happened to me, it wouldn't be fair to stifle them under the weight of"—he ticked off obligations on his feathers—"stocks and bonds, securities, mines and refineries, factories, banks, airlines, shipping routes . . ."

"All right!" exclaimed Mr. Flywheel, in spite of the clock. "I can see that it's a difficult job." He drew a sheaf of papers and a pen from his briefcase and put them on the desk between them. "It seems to me, sir, that the ideal solution is to set up a trust fund for your heirs, so that they do not come into the money until such a date as you deem fit."

"A trust fund! Of course." He gazed speculatively into space. "When should they get the money, I wonder?"

"Well, many of my clients choose an age when . . . Say, Mr. McDuck?" the lawyer asked, curiosity and wide-eyed hero-worship temporarily overtaking his professional manner, "when were _you_ ready for all this?"

"I was born ready!" Scrooge declared automatically. But that wasn't true, he corrected himself, remembering the bright, innocent Glasgow lad who would let himself be conned out of his own shoeshine kit.

Another memory followed—a quick, painful vision of the power-mad speculator, burning out a Congo village for its diamonds.

Scrooge glanced at the desk and said softly, "I was never ready."

"Well—er—that doesn't really—" faltered the lawyer, but Scrooge had already moved on to other memories. A faraway smile touched his features for a moment, and then gave way to a look of decision.

"Twenty-nine," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Twenty-nine. That's how old I was when I struck it rich. From then on I _had_ money, whether I was ready for it or not. My grandnephews Louie, Dewey and Huey Duck can access their inheritance when they reach their twenty-ninth birthday." He reached across, slipped a pen into the lawyer's hand, and stood up. "Thank you, Flywheel. Draw up the papers now, if you please."

"But—um—Mr. McDuck?" The lawyer, confused, looked uncertainly from the papers to Scrooge.

"Well, what is it? Quit stalling—it's been almost a quarter of an hour already!"

"Who are you naming as your trustee?"

Scrooge sat down abruptly.

"If you're putting your assets in a trust fund," the lawyer explained, unnecessarily, "you have to choose a person to take care of your boys' inheritance until they come of age."

"Oh me! I had completely forgotten!" Scrooge tapped his beak in thought. "Who can I trust to take care of my fortune?" He fixed the lawyer sternly over his spectacles. "I suppose I'd have to pay _you_ to do it."

"Well, it is customary to provide some slight . . ."

"Bah! Don't expect a little thing like death to make a spendthrift out of Scrooge McDuck! Besides, what does someone like you know about managing a vast fortune and corresponding corporate empire?"

"Not very much," sighed the lawyer. They sat in thought for a moment. "Say, how about appointing the children's guardian?"

"Gleep!"

"He'd be certain to have their best interests at heart," the lawyer went on, "and . . . Mr. McDuck? Are you all right?"

"Donald—in charge of _my_ fortune!" Scrooge sputtered, replacing the knickknacks that he had just knocked off the desk. "Oh, my stars and garters! Are you trying to hasten my demise?!"

"Only a suggestion."

"It's absolutely out of the question! My nephew Donald is helpless, hapless, and _hopeless_!

"O.K. then," said the lawyer, taken aback by such a frank assessment. "What about one of your other relatives?"

"No good," said Scrooge without a second thought. "My distant nephew Gladstone Gander is even more of a wastrel than Donald, if such a thing can be imagined. You can't manage an empire on good luck."

"You seem to have a lot of respect for your relatives. Er, I mean,"—the lawyer pulled at his collar and avoided Scrooge's glare—"are there any friends of the family you could call on?"

"I have never cultivated friends," said Scrooge coolly.

The lawyer restrained a powerful urge to say _I can't imagine why_, and instead ventured, "Perhaps I'm thinking too much on the personal level, Mr. McDuck. The obvious solution is to appoint someone who is already familiar with your business affairs—someone who would be able to competently take on the extra responsibility."

"That's just the problem!" said Scrooge. "There isn't anyone like that."

"No one?" asked the lawyer, surprised.

Scrooge shook his head. "No one at all. I make all of my own business decisions. I never delegate responsibility. It's what has made me so successful! You can make a note of that," he added smugly.

The lawyer boggled. "But surely—What about the vice president of McDuck Industries?"

"McDuck Industries has no vice president! I have small-scale managers, yes, experts and advisors, but when it comes to the highest levels of administration, I have total control. The fact of the matter is," he concluded, pounding the desk for emphasis, "there's simply no one in the world I can trust with my fortune of nine fantasticatillion, four billion-jillion, centrifugalillion dollars and sixteen cents except . . . !"

He cut himself off as the light of comprehension dawned on his features.

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Scrooge McDuck's three sole heirs, flying a kite in the park the next morning, were confronted by an unusual sight: Scrooge himself. Or, to be more specific, Scrooge McDuck attired in a garish windbreaker in place of the usual broadcloth coat and a sweatband instead of the aristocratic top hat—an outfit that clashed somewhat with his ever-present spats.

"Willikers—"

"—Unca' Scrooge—"

"—what are you _doing_?" asked Louie, Huey, and Dewey, respectively, in chorus.

"Jogging, boys!" he answered, and his heirs are still unsure just what that has to do with what he said next: "If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself!"


End file.
